


Covert

by Megg33k



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dog Tags, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Handcuffs, Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Oral Sex, Rimming, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megg33k/pseuds/Megg33k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go undercover at a gay bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cumberbitchsandwich](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cumberbitchsandwich).



> I feel like I should clarify that the non-graphic violence and minor injuries are separate from the sex... These things aren't happening at the same time. The story is generally very fluffy, because the Kyna is a fan of fluffy... and it was for her! You'll notice some of her kinks here... like Ginger!Batch & Converse trainers. It's great fun!
> 
> My friend cinnibunny made some amazing fanart for it too (NSFW):   
> http://petitekitten.tumblr.com/post/29162693810/im-sorry-for-megg33k-some-gift-art-of-her-story
> 
> I had a great time writing this, and I'm probably going to do some follow up pieces later on.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just fluff for now...

John Watson was startled awake by the sound of his text alert and, still groggy, rolled to grasp for his mobile.

_Out for the day. New case. Meet me tonight. Deep cover necessary. Try to look less… like you. –SH_

_Also, pack a bag. We’ll be gone two nights. –SH_

John sighed. Not again. Eyes still bleary from sleep, he slammed his head against the pillow.

_Where? –JW_

_Address to follow. –SH_

_Wait. You said to look less like me. Less like me how? –JW_

_We’ll be meeting at a gay bar. Dress to fit in. –SH_

John closed his eyes tightly and hoped he was dreaming. Upon opening them again, the messages remained on his phone and his reality hadn’t changed in the least. Why were they going to a gay bar? He could ask, but it didn’t matter. He could already see that conversation playing out in his head.

“Why?”

“The case, John.”

“Yes, but why?”

“THE CASE, JOHN.”

He refused to participate in that specific exercise in ignorance. Therefore, the good little soldier would do as he was told, no matter how much he wanted to disobey. After all, seeing Sherlock ‘dressed to fit in’ would make the whole thing more than worth it. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would even know what ‘fitting in’ would look like. For that matter, he wasn’t sure he knew either.

Later that afternoon, John stood in front of his closet with a small overnight bag open on the bed behind him and stared blankly at the fabric hanging before him. He reached in several times, partially withdrawing a different hanger each time and putting it back. He was getting frustrated with so little direction from Sherlock.

“Fit in?” he scoffed quietly to himself. “Oh, for chrissake, what am I doing? They’re just people like everyone else. They can’t _all_ have superb fashion sense.” He hoped that was true.

He slipped into what he considered to be his smartest button-up shirt and a decent pair of slacks. He started to grab a jumper but stopped, internally berating himself for being so predictable. A quick look in the mirror confirmed he had no idea if he had succeeded in Sherlock’s challenge or not, but it was his best effort. After neatly folding and packing two days’ and nights’ worth of clothing into his bag, he shook his head as he glanced at the mirror once. _Oh, Sherlock, what are you getting me into this time?_

Truthfully, it didn’t matter. He had once tried to come up with a scenario Sherlock could put forth which he’d reject, but nothing had been evident. He’d follow that man to hell and back if he even hinted at wishing it so. Sometimes, John wished he could have his loyalty to Sherlock surgically removed from his brain.

John studiously arrived a few minutes early at the address he’d received and shook off his nerves before walking in. It was loud, lights flashing and men everywhere. He looked around cautiously, noting he had never walked into a club looking for a man before. His eyes scanned each face in the crowd quickly and efficiently, but Sherlock’s was not amongst them. Disheartened, he crossed the room to the bar and leaned against it, his position allowing him to continue to watch the door for the detective’s grand entrance, which would surely be a sight to behold. Sherlock didn’t fit in anywhere, and John certainly couldn’t imagine him fitting in there.

The bartender’s voice behind him asked if he wanted a drink, and he spun at the sound. He was there on business, but a drink would help calm his frazzled nerves. He ordered a beer and then wondered if he should have chosen something else. “Stop it, John. Don’t stereotype,” he scolded himself.

The bartender handed John his beer, and it sloshed when he flinched at the palm suddenly against the small of his back. “Fit in. Fit in,” he reminded himself, turning with a smile. He had prepared himself for a great many things, but he was completely unprepared for what he actually saw.

He found himself staring at a long, elegant neck adorned with a thin black and grey striped scarf, which hung effortlessly down a charcoal grey t-shirt pulled taught across chiseled musculature and ended near the man’s right front jean pocket. His arms were shrouded in a black, leather motorcycle jacket, and snug, slightly faded black jeans hugged his thighs and groin, affecting John in a rather unexpected way. As a blush fell across the Army doctor’s cheeks, he dropped his gaze and stared down the man’s black Converse trainers with white toe caps, sidewalls, and laces. When he was finally somewhat composed once again, he worked up the nerve to look at the face of the man who was effortlessly disarming him in the most alarming ways.

A nest of unfamiliar ginger ringlets framed a pair of unmistakable crystalline eyes, universes swirling about within them just as John had become accustomed. He knew those eyes, but it couldn’t be. “Sh-Sherlock?” he whimpered, shuddering at the desperate timbre of his own voice.

“Not a word, John.” Sherlock snapped. “The hair… it was an unfortunate accident. Molly assured me she knew what she was doing, but she clearly did not.”

“I… it’s…” John’s hand moved upon its own volition, reaching to touch the copper swirls, quickly distracted by one errant curl hanging delicately against the detective’s forehead.

Sherlock’s hand caught John’s before he reached it. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” John shook his head, trying to reclaim his now-shaky grasp on reality. “I was just…” _Don’t say attracted. Don’t say attracted_. “…distracted.”

“I know; it’s dreadful. Please, don’t remind me.”

John was slowly regaining his sense, seeing things more clearly. “Since when do you care about your appearance? You, with your ‘just transport’ and all that.”

“Even a genius of my caliber is allowed brief moments of vanity. I’m sure you wouldn’t understand.”

“Hold on a minute… Did you just call me stupid or ugly?”

Sherlock expression told John he recognized the ‘you’ve-said-something-a-bit-not-good’ tone. “No, I—”

John didn’t need an apology or even to watch the brilliant man suffer. He was satisfied enough knowing he was learning to recognize his social mistakes. “Never mind, Sher—”

A long, thin finger was pressed gently against John’s lips. “You can’t call me that here. Deep cover, remember?”

“But you’re still calling me John.”

“Yes, well, John is rather common. I’ve met…” Sherlock stopped, obviously trying to think over the loud thumpa-thumpa of the house music. “I’ve met 316 other Johns. How many people have you met who share my name?”

“316 Johns? Ironic, isn’t it?”

“First, I suspect you don’t actually know what that word means. Second, I’ve probably deleted whatever obscure reference you’re trying to make. Third, the question, John… How many?”

John sighed. He had learned to pick his battles, and this wasn’t one he wished to pursue. “Obviously, none, Sher—”

The offending digit found its way back to John’s lips. “Have you learned nothing from our exchange?” Sherlock’s voice was practically a low growl. “Call me Andy.”

“Oh, I knew an Andy once. He was a great bloke. We went to uni—”

“Yes, I’m sure. Drink your beer, John. I’ve got work to do,” Sherlock said, with not so much as the slightest hint of interest in his voice, and immediately disappeared into the crowd.

John shook his head as he raised the slightly soiled glass to his mouth and took a swig, resolutely noting the quality of the drink had no direct correlation to its insufferably high price.

“Lover’s spat?” a strange voice purred lasciviously into his ear.

The doctor’s body tensed, completely uncertain of how he was meant to respond. He had been so busy bickering with Sherlock, he’d forgotten to get the specifics of their cover story. He torqued his neck to try and get a glimpse of the voice’s owner. “I… we… no…” he stammered, turning to face the young man. _Blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty-two or twenty-three at most. Jesus, I’m old enough to be his father. Say something, anything_. “We’re not… together.” The last word caught in this throat as he desperately tried to set eyes on Sherlock for reassurance.

“Hey, it’s your story. You can tell it any way you like.” He smiled at John, his grin devoid any innocence it may have once held.

John’s mind raced. Such common words in such an innocuous order had never before sounded so filthy. He was flattered. _Oh, god, really? Flattered?_ He had to answer him and blurted out the first syllable which came to mind. “No.”

The man… _just a boy, really_ … laughed. “No?”

 _Jesus, John, that didn’t make any sense. Get hold of yourself_. John grasped at thin air for an intelligent retort which seemed not to exist, opening his mouth to speak but closing it again before uttering a peep.

“Oh, darling, I don’t feel like a threesome tonight. Lovely thought, though.” Sherlock’s voice broke John’s silence, relieving the Army doctor of his conversational burden.

“I thought you said you weren’t together.” The young man smirked.

“It’s just part of the shtick,” Sherlock said reassuringly. “Now, off with you. Time for the grown-ups to talk.”

“Grown ups?” He glared at Sherlock. “Fuck off.”

John watched intently as his pursuer sneered and slunk away before turning to his flat mate. “I didn’t know what to tell him. I wasn’t sure if we were supposed to be a couple.”

“Well, we weren’t, but I couldn’t sit idly by and watch you do… that, whatever it was you were doing. Furthermore, I can clearly see why you’ve had such a difficult time keeping a girlfriend.”

“You’re the reason I can’t keep… wait… watch? Were you off watching me?”

“Of course I was. What else would I have been doing?”

“Why were you watching me?”

“The case, John. I swear, it’s like you must be told every little thing.”

John winced against his palm. “I don’t even know what the case is!” he erupted, far too loudly if they had been in nearly any other environment.

“Keep your voice down. Under cover, remember?”

“I don’t care. Just tell me, Sherlo—… Andy.”

“There’s a murderer on the loose, picking men up from this bar, and you’re just his type.”

Rage swelled in John’s chest. “Murderer? Here? I’m bait? I’m fucking BAIT?”

“See, John? This is why I don’t tell you things. I knew you’d just overreact.”

“You’re playing silly buggers with my life, and I’m overreacting?”

The detective sighed. “You’ve never been in any real danger. He kills them after they leave the bar, and you certainly didn’t appear to be on the verge of leaving with anyone.”

“I could have, you know? He wanted me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He wanted an orgasm,” came his flippant reply.

“Yeah, maybe… “ John was furious. If Sherlock were anyone else, his antics would be the height of passive-aggressiveness. _But, no, it can’t be that simple with Sherlock. How can someone naturally be such an annoying dick all the time?_ “But he wanted it from me.”

“Well, he can’t have you,” Sherlock snapped possessively, and John noticed the subtle twitch of his facial muscles giving away the fact he hadn’t meant to say it. At the very least, he hadn’t meant to say it in that way.

John didn’t feel like dwelling on what Sherlock’s outburst had meant. “You said I was just his type… What’s his type?” _And how offended am I going to be by your answer?_

“Male, Caucasian, thirties, fit, attractive, light hair and eyes.”

The doctor waited for the insult which wasn’t coming and finally replied once he realized just that. “But, I’m not in my thirties…”

“Yes, well, you happen to look a few years younger than you are, luckily for me. I didn’t want to have to phone Mycroft in order to get someone else.”

The daft genius before John hadn’t even intended to compliment him, probably wouldn’t have ever done it intentionally. “Th-thanks,” John stuttered. It was hard to act normally around Sherlock when he looked so different, so unfamiliar… _so beautiful_. “Was that man… was it…”

“No, John. It wasn’t him. He was much too young to fit the profile and played guitar. The man I’m looking for does not. Besides, I’d never have let him get that close to you if he was the killer.”

John cocked his head to one side, watching Sherlock’s hand unconsciously move to his chest and settle on the scarf very near to his heart. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing.” The detective’s hand receded and he whipped around to glance over the crowd once more. “He’s not here, not tonight. Let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a little smut in this one...

The cab ride to the hotel was filled with an awkward silence, an unusual experience for the detective and his blogger. The silence stretching between them was usually enjoyable, cozy, even intimate. It seemed both men were slightly less than clear of mind.

When they arrived at their night’s accommodations, Sherlock ushered John out of the car. The warmth of Sherlock’s hand permeating the fabric of John’s shirt set him further on edge. _What’s an erection between friends, right?_ John was mortified.

Sherlock’s long arm was draped across John’s shoulders, pulling him close, when they approached the front desk. “What are you doing?” John whispered.

“Deep cover.”

A shiver ran down the doctor’s spine, but he took the opportunity to lean his head gently against Sherlock’s shoulder. Key in hand, they headed for their room. When the door swung open, John’s mouth fell open.

“Sh-sherlock,” John stuttered. “There’s only one bed.”

“I said deep cover, John. We’re grown men. It’s fine. Don’t be such a child.”

 _Irrational attraction to my best friend? Check. Erection in public? Check. Sleeping in the same bed? Why the hell not!_ John sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah, no… It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

“I know it is.”

John took a seat on the edge of the bed… _the bed, singular_ … and watched as Sherlock marched off toward the loo to change. He stared longingly at the closed door, tempting him with what was on the other side, and felt himself stiffen again. _No, this is not happening. I’m not gay, not even for him_. He quickly stood to change before his flat mate returned, hoping to avoid Sherlock catching him in a semi-erect state.

John was already in bed, well covered, when Sherlock returned in his requisite pyjama pants and a grey tee not entirely dissimilar to the one he’d been wearing all night. “Right side of the bed. Interesting.”

“Oh, should I… I mean, did you…”

“No. It’s just interesting.”

“How so?”

“It doesn’t matter, but it does explain a lot.”

“But, wait… I…”

“Goodnight, John.” Sherlock flopped on to the bed, switched the light off, and closed his eyes with impressive speed.

John heard a gentle clink from Sherlock’s chest as he pulled the covers up over himself. “What was that?”

Sherlock abruptly turned away from John without so much as a word, but his actions said enough. He had heard the question, and he didn’t want to talk about it. _Dammit. What aren’t you telling me?_ He hated it when Sherlock kept secrets. It always led to something dangerous or stupid, often both at the same time. Trying to ignore the nagging in the back of his mind telling him to press his new bedmate for answers, he closed his eyes and hoped sleep would soon overtake him.

John had no idea how long he’d been asleep when he was coaxed back to consciousness by the warm hand massaging his cock. _Wait… I’m already half hard. What the hell? Who’s… SHERLOCK?_ He peeked out through lidded eyes just in time to see a mass of light auburn locks closing in on him, just before his lips were caught between Sherlock’s. His fingers tangled in the detective’s curls, lips, tongues, and teeth engaged in a delicate ballet… nipping here, sucking there.

The perfect Cupid ’s bow traced a path along John’s jaw, and then… _The fuck?_ … suddenly, the unmistakable heat of breath, the slip-slide of saliva on a pulsing tongue against his cock made it twitch fully to life. Those lips… Those perfect lips, from which genius regularly and effortless slipped, were wrapped tightly around his erection and had never been so beautiful. John had always admired them as he watched Sherlock’s brilliance unfold, but he was learning to appreciate them in an entirely different way. Seeing them, feeling them as they moved along the shaft of his cock… the copper mop bobbing away at his groin and then wide, translucent eyes staring up into his. This isn’t riiii— He moaned instead of finishing his. _Fuck it. Who cares? This feels amazing._

Just as John was relenting to pure, unadulterated pleasure, he found his face buried in the sheets, his fists balled around handfuls of the fabric. He couldn’t see what was happening, but the warm, humid breath that had just been on his cock was now blanketing the small of his back. The tip of a… _Tongue? Is that a tongue? Do I hope it’s a tongue? Oh, God!_ … trailed down his lower spine and paused near his arse. Every muscle in his body clenched in wait for what would happen next, but the tension drained away as the he felt the unmistakable sensation of what was definitely a wide, wet tongue gently lapping at his sensitive opening. It swirled in tight, concentric circles before quickly darting in and out a few times. John shuddered. His faculties were retreating at an alarming pace, his prick rock-hard and dripping with pre-cum, and Sherlock’s face buried squarely in his arse. Thoughts escaped him, and his knees threatened to collapse beneath him. _ahh… tongue… jesus… fuck…_

 _Fingers?_ Two long, elegant fingers wriggled inside John, pressing at a bundle of nerves he never even knew he had… or never knew how they could make him feel. As a doctor, he knew his prostate existed, but he had never considered the absolute joy of having his flat mate’s fingers thoroughly working it over. His cock throbbed for release, but his arm was pinned behind his back in punishment for reaching to pull himself off. _FUCK_ His body cried out for release, the words spilling over and escaping his throat. “Oh, God, please.”

It was the sound of John’s own voice that woke him, panting, shaking, sweating, to find himself neatly wrapped up in Sherlock’s arms, their legs tangled together beneath the covers. The detective stared helplessly… _scared?_

“You were dreaming.” He didn’t loosen his grip in the slightest.

“Yeah, I suppose I was. Sorry if I woke you.” John tried not to think about the subject matter of the dream, but having Sherlock wound around him in such a way made it almost impossible. Worse yet, he was disappointed to have woken up. _Disappointed? Jesus, what’s wrong with me?_

“The war?”

“What?”

“Your dream. You were shaking, calling out. Was it about the war?”

 _It wasn’t. It was about you, your tongue, your fingers, your_ … “Yes. It was about the war.”

“I tried to wake you, but… I didn’t know what to do.” Sherlock had never looked so lost, desperate, caring before.

“I’m fine. It’s all fine,” John said, reassuring his obviously shaken flat mate. “I think I’d like a shower though. Cleansing the body to cleanse the mind, if you will.”

“Of course.” He didn’t move.

“Sherlock?” John wriggled a little in his death grip.

“Oh!” The detective released him immediately. “By all means.”

John swung his legs over the side of the bed, horrified to find his erection still very much in tact but happy to see he’d resisted coming all over himself. He stood and trotted toward the loo, anxious to feel the warm water pour over his skin. He needed those memories washed away, swirling down the drain. _Swirling_. A chill ran the length of his spine. _That word will never register the same way again_.

As the water fell and warmed, steam began to billow from the shower, beckoning John inside. He stepped under the stream and closed his eyes. His hands slicked his hair back and rested on his neck. _Warm. Wet. Neck. Fingers_. Every touch, every sensation still reminded him of Sherlock… or Andy… or whoever that beautiful man in his bed was. _Beautiful? Fuck_. Why did it feel like he was seeing him for the first time?

His hands trailed down his torso and stopped near his groin. _What if I think about him?_ His cock still ached for relief. _Should I even bother trying not to think of him?_ He stroked, his pupils blown with desire and his mind filled with nothing but Sherlock. It wouldn’t take long at this rate.

The water trickling down his back taunted him with false memories of the glorious tongue. That alone was nearly enough to finish him off, with or without the help of his hand. Still, he thrust repeatedly into his circled fist, suppressing the groans threatening to abscond from his lips, each one dripping with Sherlock’s name. As he came across the cool, ceramic tile, he bit his lip so hard it nearly bled just to avoid screaming that name. John couldn’t be sure what those circumstances and that particular orgasm said about him, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. There’s something to be said for a good orgasm, regardless of the situation. He quickly dressed and tip-toed back toward the bed so as to avoid waking his flat mate once again.

As John emerged from the loo, Sherlock, decidedly not asleep, turned to look at him. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” he said, climbing back into bed.

“Good. Shall I continue holding, pre-emptively? Or…?”

“Perhaps not.” John didn’t need a new erection when he’d only just taken care of the last one. “Thanks, though.”

“Yes, fine. Goodnight, then.”

“G’night, Sherlock.” He sighed as his eyelids fell shut once again and he prayed for… _something mundane, please? Even the war_ … At least he was used to those dreams. They were a terror he was comfortable with, a terror he knew and understood. Lusting after Sherlock was far more unsettling. He didn’t give it much thought, though. Disturbed or not, he was utterly spent, and sleep quickly overtook him once again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff again...

The next morning, John awoke elated to find he couldn’t remember a single thing about his post-shower dreams. The coppery bird’s nest still lay placidly on the pillow next to him, and he inexplicably reached out to touch it. Just before his fingers made contact with the soft curls though, Sherlock began to stir. _Shit! Does he know what I was about to do?_

The detective turned over and blinked sleepily at John. “Coffee?” he muttered.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “I’ve not even left the bed yet.”

Sherlock’s hand pawed lazily at John’s face, almost as if he was trying to push him from the bed. “Two sugars.” His eyes fell closed again.

John could think of nothing beyond biting that offending hand. Offending? Not quite. Biting? Even less accurate. What he really wanted to do was suck one of those long, thin fingers into his mouth and… _Nope… Nope… Nope. Not going to think about that_. Alas, the only thing John wanted to do less than get out of bed was giving in to his overwhelming urge to… _Nope. Still just nope_. Instead, he scurried off to fetch them each a coffee so that he might temporarily quell what would surely become incessant whinging were he to ignore the request.

When John returned with two steaming cups of coffee in hand, Sherlock had already transformed himself into Andy once again. A smoky grey tee with large, loopy scribbles on it cloaked his torso, a different charcoal scarf around his neck. Dark denim clung to his thighs, and he was pulling the laces tight on the very same black Converse trainers from the night before. His hair looked somehow darker, more saturated than it had when John left. “Your coffee.” He held a cup toward his flat mate. “Do you… Do you have product in your hair?”

“Pity.” Sherlock snorted. “I was rather in the mood for tea this morning.”

“But you sent me for coffee… two sugars.”

“You’re mistaken.” Sherlock snatched the coffee from John’s hand. “It’ll suffice, though. Get dressed.”

John glanced down at his own attire, fully believing he already was dressed. “I-I didn’t bring—”

“Of course you didn’t. There’s a bag on the bed.” He shooed John along with a wave of his hand. “Quickly. We’re going antiquing.”

John picked up the bag, peeking warily inside. “Did you say antiquing?”

“A lead, John.”

The Army doctor didn’t question it further. He, instead, dumped the bags contents onto the bed and shook his head. _He cannot seriously believe I’m wearing this_.

“Now, if you don’t mind.” Sherlock huffed, almost as if he could read John’s thoughts.

John glared but did as he was told. The strategically faded denim jeans fit him well, which shouldn’t have been impressive since the most observant man on the planet had chosen them. Even the white button-up Nehru-collared shirt seemed reasonable. It was the dark navy waistcoat with thin white pinstripes and cornflower blue silk scarf with a silhouetted vine pattern that gave him pause. Once he’d pulled on the waistcoat, Sherlock was already in front of him properly positioning the scarf before he could even balk about it. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s almost lustful gaze convinced him to close it without a sound.

John tugged on his loafers to complete the ensemble and glanced in the mirror, reasonably pleased with the image which greeted him. “So, what’s the pretense for today? Am I bait again?” He was mildly disgusted by the eagerness in his own voice.

“Not yet. We must keep up appearances from last night. We’ll be a couple today.”

“O-Oh.” If John hadn’t sounded disturbingly eager before, he certainly did now. “By all means.”

“Good. Come along.” Sherlock studiously ushered John from the hotel and into a cab, where he proceeded to interlace his fingers with John’s.

John glanced down at their hands and then at Sherlock’s face, but the detective’s expression made it clear he knew what he was doing. “So, you wanted to go antiquing today, darling?”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yeah, a bit. The flat could use some sprucing up, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, certainly.”

When the driver stopped in front of the address Sherlock had given him, the men paid and piled out, still holding hands. A bell rang atop the shop door as it opened, and the clerk looked up from the papers she was shuffling through on the counter. “Anything I can help you with?” she called, no trace of sincerity in her voice.

“Just looking, thanks,” Sherlock shot back curtly. His arm now draped across John’s shoulders again.

John wound one arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist and gripped him a bit tighter than was strictly necessary. _He did say deep cover_.

They wandered about the tables of trinkets, casually glancing at only the most eye-catching of items. When they were within earshot of the clerk, Sherlock began to pick up some of the pricier pieces and speak loudly about them. “Wouldn’t this be lovely on the mantle, John? You know, next to the skull.” He held out a Ming-style vase.

“Far too expensive for the shoddy quality, darling. Looks like a pretty poor replica to me.”

The clerk’s head shot up and away from whatever she had been studying. “I assure you we don’t sell ‘poor replicas’ here.” She made her way around the counter to join the men at the table.

“Bad business practices to admit otherwise?” John goaded her, hoping Sherlock’s goal was to distract the woman.

Sherlock had already wandered away, leaving John to politely bicker with the shopkeeper, who insisted the vase was every bit as valuable as it was purported to be. She was likely telling the truth, but that seemed rather inconsequential. There was obviously something Sherlock needed from the shop, and John’s only purpose was to facilitate that need being met.

“Come on, John. Let’s go.” Sherlock had obviously found whatever it was he had come for.

Unable to resist, John feigned like he was going to drop the vase just to watch the clerk’s eyes go wide with horror. “Oops!” He smirked at the sound of Sherlock’s snickering, and they left arm in arm.

“That seemed unnecessarily cruel,” Sherlock said, a hint of surprise in his tone.

“But normal people are so boring,” John retorted mockingly. “We geniuses simply have to entertain ourselves somehow, don’t we?”

A grin crept to Sherlock’s lips. “Have you ever considered shooting at a wall?”

“Could do.” John chuckled. “So what did you find out?”

“Her brother.”

“Her brother?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s lack of observational skills. “She’s an idiot, and even she’s catching on that it’s him.”

“It’s him? Oh! OH! Her brother’s the killer?”

In the blink of an eye, John found himself pressed up against a brick wall in a darkened alleyway. Sherlock’s elbow rested against the wall near John’s ear, his entire presence more oppressive than usual. Their foreheads were nearly touching, others of their body parts haphazardly grazing one another in the infinitesimally small space between them.

“You’d do well to keep your voice down.” Sherlock’s breath filled John’s nostrils, still laced with traces of his morning coffee and what could only be described as wanton lust. At least that’s how it smelled to John. Any other reality, once again, seemed inconsequential.

“Sorry, sorry. How do you know?” John asked breathlessly, barely able to contain himself under the circumstances.

“The papers on the counter were travel logs. There are discrepancies in unaccounted for mileage. It’s a family business. Her brother makes deliveries, and no one else has access to the van. He’s using it at night to transport his victims. Perfect cover. No one notices a delivery van, invisible.”

_Brilliant! Why does he have to be so bloody gorgeous? What? Not gorgeous, brilliant. Brilliant!_

“She checked her phone seven… no, eight… eight times while we were in there. She was chewing her nails, nervous. She’s tried to contact him today, but he’s not responding.”

_Of course. Why don’t I see what he sees? Why can’t I stop staring at his lips? God, his fucking lips._

“The undelivered armoire in the back was marked to go out today. He didn’t show up for work. He’s devolving quickly. He’ll need to kill again soon.”

_Shit! I don’t even know what he just said. I was just staring at his lips. There were L’s… Jesus, his tongue when he pronounces L’s._

“He must be… _blahblahblah… blahblah… kiss me, John… blahblah… kiss me… blahblahblah… now, John…_ ”

John yanked at Sherlock’s scarf, pulling him down and capturing the man’s mouth with his own. The detective’s lips parted, welcoming John’s tongue to slip between them, as he deepened the kiss which John had lost the will to restrain. At long last, John threaded his fingers into the copper curls he had been admiring since the moment he laid eyes on them. They felt like finely woven silk against his skin. John’s hips instinctively bucked forward until his groin pressed into Sherlock’s thigh, and he moaned quietly into Sherlock’s mouth. John writhed against him for a moment more before finally pulling away.

John knew his eyes must have been dripping with terror as he stared up at Sherlock. _Jesus, John. Why the fuck did you do that?_ He waited for some sort of reaction, reply, or retribution, but nothing came. “I can explain,” he finally blurted out to break the detective’s silence.

“No need,” said Sherlock. “Are they gone?”

John searched Sherlock’s eyes for an answer to the obvious question: _They?_

“The people following us, John… Are they gone?”

 _Is he assuming I kissed him to evade possible pursuers? Is he just giving me a way out? Were there really people following us?_ “Y-yes, it appears so.”

“Good, good. I guess those years in the military ramped up your observation skills in some areas at least. Perhaps I don’t give you enough credit.” He grinned.

Praise? Was that praise? It seemed so unlikely. “Th-thanks, Sher—”

“Andy. We’ll have to work on your memory.”

“Right. Andy.”

“We need to get back to the hotel so I can change before the bar tonight.” He laced his fingers with John’s once again and smirked, falling easily back into character. “Shall we, love?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff again...

With night setting in and a chill in the air, Sherlock opted to simply add a short-sleeved hoodie and the same black leather jacket he had worn the night before to his attire. Soon after, they hit the bar for another night of detective work. John was significantly more informed about the mission this time around but also increasingly conflicted about his feelings for Sherlock. He had no time for a sexual identity crisis when there was a killer to catch, though.

The night was off to a slow start. John was nursing a mediocre but incredibly overpriced beer, and Sherlock had wandered off to… _wherever the fuck he goes to observe_. The first man to approach John that evening was about his own age. _Nice change of pace. At least I don’t feel like a paedophile tonight_. He looked like money, and he was more than mildly interested in taking the Army doctor out some time.

“Sorry, this one’s taken.” Sherlock smirked over John’s shoulder, his arms dangling flaccidly around John’s neck.

“Maybe this one doesn’t want to be taken by you anymore.” The man bristled as he stood his ground.

John’s eyes went wide. _This could be fun_.

“This one,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, “as you insist on continuing to refer to him, has stayed with me through much more pressing situations than you could possibly imagine in your feeble little mind.” Sherlock’s grip tightened around John’s chest. “He’s likely the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you or anyone else take him from me.”

John couldn’t be sure if Sherlock was simply in character or if he had possibly been more honest than intended. He hoped for the latter, but feared the former. His thoughts were soon interrupted, though.

The man’s gaze dropped right back to John’s face without so much as an acknowledgment of what Sherlock had said. “It sounds like someone’s a bit possessive and insecure. What do you say I show you what it’s like to be with a real man?”

Sherlock’s fists clenched, and his heartbeat was pounding faster and faster in John’s ear.

John’s eyes narrowed. “A real man? Are you suggesting he—” John glanced up at Sherlock. “—isn’t a real man? Because, from where I’m standing, that’s a very dangerous thing to do.”

The man scoffed. “This daft sod who thinks he can tell me what I can and cannot have? It’s not a suggestion, love. Consider it an outright declaration. This pathetic excuse of a—” His words were choked off by one of Sherlock’s massive hands, which appeared to be gripped rather tightly around his throat.

John chuckled. “What was that? I didn’t catch the end of it.”

The man clawed wildly at Sherlock’s wrist and forearm, but the leather did well to protect him. “Leh go’v me y’fckin psychopath.”

“High. Functioning. Sociopath. PAY ATTENTION.” Sherlock’s fingers dug further into the already strained muscles of the man’s neck.

“Darling, darling.” John spoke in a calm, steady voice and rubbed Sherlock’s arm soothingly. “I can’t have you going to jail over this wanker. I can’t bear to think what would happen to someone who looks like you…” He trailed off, unconsciously chewing on his bottom lip, because he could bear to think about it. In fact, he could think of little else. Except, it wasn’t some random inmate, it was him he pictured plunged deep with Sherlock moaning beneath him.

Sherlock let John loose, snapping the doctor back into reality. “Well, that was tedious,” said the detective. “Less covert than intended, but needs must.”

John quickly realized he had no idea what must have transpired while he was… distracted. The man who had once been in front of him, turning blue and gasping for air, was gone and the possessive warmth of Sherlock’s arms around his chest had completely dissipated. _How bloody disappointing_. “That…” Sherlock had already disappeared into the crowd once again.

The next stretch of time felt like an eternity, John couldn’t even be sure the killer would show up. He certainly hadn’t the night before. Maybe Sherlock was wrong for once. As he drained his beer, another was thrust just under his nose.

“Here, gorgeous,” a new voice hummed, soft and sweet.

John looked up, surprised, and took the offering. “Me? Gorgeous?” _Thirities. Tall. Strong. Attractive. Confident_. “Th-thanks.”

“Are you kidding? If no one’s ever told you how gorgeous you are, you’re obviously hanging about in the wrong crowds.”

“I…” _don’t know what to say_. John’s mouth was still hanging silently open when the brazen man took advantage of its welcoming state, darting in for a kiss. The resistance the shocked doctor hoped to put up was severely lacking. When the man pulled away, John was stunned. “I need a drink.”

“You have one.” The mysterious stranger chuckled, nodding toward the beer in John’s hand.

“Oh.” John’s eyes widened. “So I do.” He raised it to his lips with every intention of taking a long, slow swig.

As the glass shattered and beer drenched the front of John’s shirt, he had no idea what was going on. A cursory glance in front of him told him it was Sherlock’s hand which had knocked it away from his mouth and to the nearby bar where it shattered. At once, Sherlock was overtaking the man who had provided the drink without a single word. _Is it because he kissed me? Is he… jealous?_

Before he could ponder the meaning of the action for long, the air was ripped violently from John’s lungs. The stranger had a knife, and Sherlock hadn’t seemed to notice it yet. _That careless bastard’s brought nothing but fists to fucking knife fight_. John didn’t need an explanation before his fist met the knife-wielding stranger’s jaw. It knocked him back but not out, which was more than mildly disappointing. Nonetheless, it gave Sherlock time to shrug off the leather jacket that was constricting his movements, quite a detriment under the circumstances.

John found himself rather rudely… _protectively?_ … shoved out of the way once Sherlock was free. He stumbled back, surprised by the force. Sherlock either really wanted him out of the way, or he was desperate to keep him safe. The latter reeked of sentiment, so it was the less likely of the two. Just as his he got his bearings about him, he saw the knife once again. That knife he had tried so desperately to remove from the violent equation was about to split Sherlock open. With his brain feeling like it was short-circuiting, John charged headlong into the attacker’s mid-section. He was successful at subduing the man, but it came too late to keep the sharpened steel from penetrating Sherlock’s left shoulder, though it was impossible to tell to what extent. John’s mind was consumed with nothing but thoughts of Sherlock’s well-being, but the man writhing angrily under the weight of his body had to be attended to first, even if the weapon had skidded several feet out of the man’s reach.

The loud clack of metal on concrete startled John, but he was relieved to see a pair of handcuffs on the floor beside him. He quickly retrieved them and clipped them on the assailant before getting to his feet, dragging the newly cuffed killer up with him. He shoved the man toward a nearby bouncer, leaving him to deal with the further detainment duty until the authorities could arrive. He sprinted toward Sherlock, who had already shrugged his jacket back on and phoned Lestrade on his mobile.

“Are… are you okay?” John whispered to Sherlock, trying hard not to interrupt too terribly, but his answer came in the form of Sherlock’s palm in his face. _Well, he obviously didn’t sever whatever it is that makes him such a dick_. John waited impatiently until the detective ended his call.

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said, coolly answering the worried doctor.

“But I saw him strike you. Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” he repeated, his tone suggesting he had no intention of discussing it further.

After Lestrade and his men had come in to properly apprehend the killer and gush over Sherlock’s brilliance, he and John were in a cab back to their hotel.

“Where… uh… where did you get those handcuffs?” John asked awkwardly.

“I always carry two pair, just in case.”

John nearly choked as he inhaled. _Two? He still has a pair with him?_ “If I might ask, why two?” He cleared his throat.

“Criminals often work in pairs. Yes, some work alone, even most. Many require a partner, though. Groups, however, are much less common—”

“Okay.” John cut him off. “I get it. I’m sorry I asked.” _He’s fucking exhausting. Sometimes, I just wish I could shut him up._ He was already counting the ways he’d like to try.

When they eventually made it back to their room, Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed and shrugged off the leather jacket. John watched intently, practically boring holes into the detective’s likely injured left shoulder. His eyes went wide when he saw the dark staining of blood spreading ever wider into the fabric of Sherlock’s hoodie.

“Jesus, you’re bleeding everywhere,” John yelped, bolting for the bed. “Let me see.”

Sherlock wriggled away from him. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“I’m the doctor, and I’ll be the judge of that. Now, hold still.”

“No, John, please…” Sherlock was practically begging.

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.” John didn’t understand his hesitation.

In such a situation, the layers were proving to be a nightmare. As he carefully peeled off the hoodie, the size of the gash in the shirt beneath became evident. The fabric was ripped wide, and it was soaked through with blood from the neck, across one pectoral and down most of the bicep length sleeve. _FUCK!_ John winced.

“Not good?” Sherlock asked warily.

“A bit not good, but I’ll take care of you,” John assured him.

Had he been even slightly less concerned about Sherlock’s well-being, John would have delighted in slipping his fingers under the hem of the grey tee and sliding it up the detective’s well-toned abdomen. He knuckles dragged gently along Sherlock’s sides, and even heavy with concern, he couldn’t help but feel… something.

Just as John was about to expose Sherlock’s chest and shoulders, the detective grabbed hold of the fabric to stop him. “No, please don’t.” It was nearly a whimper.

“I have to look, Sherlock. Plus, you incessantly wander the flat in naught but a bed sheet, and that’s only when I’m lucky enough to get you to cover up at all.”

“No… y-you… you won’t understand.” Sherlock had never sounded so desperate before.

John rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, but you’ll just have to deal with it. This is important.”

Sherlock sighed and reluctantly allowed his hand to fall away so John could slip the shirt up and over his head, being particularly mindful of the wound.

As Sherlock’s chest became visible, John saw the source of his flat mate’s discontent. “Are… th-those my dog tags? What are you doing with my dog tags?”

Sherlock wore an expression as close to shame as John had ever seen. “I knew. I told you that you wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s fine, but why? Where did you even find them?”

“You may think it’s ridiculous, but you can’t possibly understand the way my mind works.”

“Try me,” John said dryly. _I just love being told how simple I am_. Even his inner monologue had gone sarcastic.

“Well, sometimes I get a bit lost in my own obsession with cases.”

_Oh? You don’t say!_

“I couldn’t let that happen this time, though. There was more at stake. Yes, of course, I wanted to catch the killer. You, though… The prime objective…” He stared at his hands, fidgeting nervously in his lap. “My prime objective was keeping you safe… even if that meant losing the killer. Your dog tags kept my mind centered, prevented its usual wandering.”

John was stunned, speechless. _My god, the man can feel. He cares… for me!_ He didn’t know how to process the information, much less how to deal with the fact that he cared for Sherlock in precisely the same way. Whether he hadn’t noticed it before, or just refused to recognize it, it was all true. “I’m glad you found them. Keep them.”

Sherlock searched John’s face for anger or dishonesty, but there was none for him to find. “Are you sure?”

“By all means—” John smirked. “—but your sentiment is showing.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock’s lips twitched into a smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”

The Army doctor slowly shook his head. “Quite the opposite.”

“If you tell anyone, John… anyone… I’ll deny it and be forced to kill you. I don’t know if you realize this, but my brother practically _is_ the British government. Yours wouldn’t be the first body he’s dealt with for me.”

“My lips are sealed.” John stood and crossed the room to the loo. He came back carrying a damp flannel. “Scoot up and lie back. I have to clean you up.”

“Is it bad?” The fear had returned to his voice.

“Not as bad as the blood made it look. You’ll certainly live.”

“Will we have matching scars?” Sherlock mused.

“Only if I shoot you. Don’t push your luck.” John dabbed gently at the tender tissue around the wound. “Stitches would be best, but only for cosmetic purposes. I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Leave it. I haven’t gained a new scar in quite some time. I almost look forward to it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut, smut, smut...

Once John was satisfied with the cleaning and patching up he was able to do with the limited supplies available in their hotel room, he settled next to Sherlock on the bed. “It’s the best I can do with what I’ve got.”

“It’ll do nicely,” he replied, admiring John’s handy work.

There was a brief silence before John spoke again. “You never told me. Where did you find my dog tags?”

“In the bottom of a drawer in your room. I tore up the flat one day looking for them while you were out.”

“You noticed I was out?” John was touched.

“I noticed you didn’t stop me. I realized later it was because you were out.”

John sighed. “When was this?”

“It’s fair to say I’ve had them for a while.”

“But you said you only wore them to keep your mind focused for this case.”

“Mm. You said there were people following us in order to explain away you kissing me.”

“I… there… I mean…” John’s eyes were wide with horror. “There were.” He was a poor liar.

“There weren’t.” Sherlock chuckled.

“Why did you…?”

“I didn’t say I minded. I was just… surprised. We had no time to sort anything right then anyway, so I thought it best to give you an excuse.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you don’t know if you should do it again or not.”

“No… I…”

“You should, John. Kiss me.”

John blinked, shaking his head. “What did you say?”

“Kiss me, John.”

“What if I don’t want to kiss you?”

“That’s almost amusing. Shall I explain all eleven ways I know you do? Because, I can if that’s what it’s going to take.”

 _Ah, well… Kissing was one of the ways I considered shutting him up earlier_. John delicately fingered the silver chain from whence his dog tags were hung and wrapped it once around his fist. Sherlock’s words had either dropped off completely, or John had just found the mute button somewhere in his head. Either way, he tugged on them slightly and pulled Sherlock’s mouth within a micrometer of his own.

Sherlock whispered, “I could start by explaining what your large, dark pupils mean, sexu—”

“Oh, shut up!” John pressed his mouth hard against that of the beautiful, obnoxious man sitting before him. It was different now… with intention, which made his growing erection somewhat less disconcerting. When he pulled away, he was a little breathless.

“I’d ask if you enjoyed yourself, but the answer seems fairly obvious.”

“Oh, god!” John crossed his legs. “I—”

“Well? Are you going to sit there? Or are you going to do something about it? No use pretending you’re not interested now. Your heart rate alone—”

John crawled onto the bed, one knee planted firmly between Sherlock’s thighs and close enough to his groin for his mouth to snap shut. He rocked forward, putting just the proper amount of pressure on the overly-talkative detective’s cock, and felt a faint twitch through the constraint of the trousers.

“You’re insufferable sometimes, you know that?” John loomed over Sherlock. “Do you ever just… just stop?”

“You must realize a person cannot simply st—”

John nibbled his way along Sherlock’s jaw and sucked in his earlobe. He bit lightly, teasing it with his tongue. “You were saying?” came the hint of a whisper in response.

A soft moan seemed to be the most Sherlock could manage.

“That’s better.” John swung his leg to the outside of Sherlock’s thigh and sat straddling him. His fingers threaded in and out of the loose ginger curls, now damp. He breathed it in the musky scent of Sherlock’s sweat and ground his hips in such a way that they both keened at the friction of cock pressed firmly against cock.

Every time John would start to raise up onto to his knees a bit further, Sherlock’s hands were quick to slam his hips back down. The feeling was far more satisfying than John had ever imagined it would be. It seemed there was no use fighting against something so glorious, so he gave in. The heat emanating from the denim between them seemed almost dangerous, though… ignitable.

Sherlock made quick work of the buttons on John’s shirt and slid it off his shoulders, sending a chill through the doctor. His hands were still clutching at the masses of curls atop Sherlock’s head, and they were joined at the mouth once again. John could feel the slow, gentle scratch of Sherlock’s nails dragging down his back and up his sides, exploring every inch of his newly exposed flesh.

Then, the taste of Sherlock’s mouth receded and the warm heat from it was on John’s neck, the occasional nip swiftly soothed by Sherlock’s tongue. _Jesus, fuck… tongue._ It was just like his dream, only so much… more? The flick of the same tongue on his nipple sent a jolt through his body, and the gentle sucking that followed did little to minimize the electricity surging through him.

When Sherlock’s lips migrated across his chest to the other nipple and then further up to his scar, he immediately winced. “Sherlock, no. It’s—”

“Beautiful,” he said, finishing John’s sentence, albeit incorrectly.

John wanted to protest, but instead closed his eyes and relaxed into the sensation of Sherlock’s soft lips on the harshest reminder of his past. When he peeked out to watch Sherlock’s tongue circling the marred flesh, the sensuality of it was nothing short of shocking. Seeing Sherlock lick, kiss, and suck at the area which had become the bane of John’s existence was somehow empowering, and his cock pressed ever harder at the already taught fabric.

What little friction could be felt through their trousers was no longer enough. John rolled his neck and clenched and unclenched his left hand, now holding his dog tags against Sherlock’s bare chest, several times.

“There’s another,” Sherlock quipped, nodding toward the tic in John’s hand.

“You can stop that any time now.”

“Mm. I was merely suggesting that I could find a better use for your hand.”

John chuckled nervously. “Still shut up.” He shivered and did exactly as was suggested. He slowly let his hand drift down Sherlock’s chest and abdomen before sliding his hips back for easier access to the button and zipper standing between him and the object of his current obsession.

After a brief fumble with Sherlock’s fly, he could clearly see the detective’s prick straining hard against the fabric of his pants, the slightest hint of flesh peeking out from the top of the elastic band. The cotton nearest the glans was already saturated with pre-cum, and it had since started to pool and mat in the fine, dark hair below his navel. John dragged on finger slowly through the small puddle. “You’ve made a mess.”

The soiled finger was raised near Sherlock’s face to show him just what sort of mess he’d made, and John was surprised to feel it being sucked slowly and deliberately into the man’s mouth. The feeling of a tongue swirling around his index finger made his hips buck forward of their own volition. After a painfully slow extraction from his flat mate’s mouth, John dropped his hand back to its previous position and set it back on task. He allowed his thumb to gingerly grace the barely exposed head of Sherlock’s cock and felt the body beneath him go rigid. A whimper escaped Sherlock’s throat, and John’s own cock thrummed at the sound.

John carefully peeled back Sherlock’s pants and watched his erection sway lazily in wait. _Jesus, even his erection looks fucking bored_. Pre-cum strung from the pool on Sherlock’s groin up to the slit of his cock, and John glazed his palm with every drop he could collect before curling his fingers tightly around the base of Sherlock’s engorged prick and taking his first long, slow stroke. The ragged breath and depraved cry it elicited were more than enough to soothe any doubts remaining in the doctor’s mind. Each successive stroke was just as agonizingly purposeful, and Sherlock’s sound effects became more and more whorish by the second. He rolled Sherlock’s foreskin up and back with each motion, and intermittently rolled the pad of his thumb around and across the opening of his glans. The way the detective’s breath caught in his chest was enough to make John’s prick ache for attention, but the lascivious noises erupting from his partner were payment enough for his patience.

As John eventually quickened his pace, Sherlock’s moans failed to provide proper pittance. He needed stimulation. He loosed his grip on Sherlock’s cock and received something akin to a hiss in return. John sighed. “Calm down. Must you be such a petulant child all the time?”

“I can’t imagine you wishing to think of me as a child under such conditions, John. If so, I fear I’ve misjudged you.”

“Oi! Fuck off. I’ll be right back.” John shook his head. _Why? Why do I put up with him?_ He quickly grabbed a small bottle of lube from his overnight bag and made his way back toward the bed. Seeing Sherlock spread languidly across the duvet, his cock still jutting out from his body as the most obscenely beautiful angle possible, his question was answered. _That is absolutely worth it_.

John wriggled out of his pants, practically dripping with his own pre-cum, and reclaimed his position straddling Sherlock’s thighs. He drizzled some of the lubricant into his palm and bit his bottom lip.

“Ah, another one.” Sherlock chuckled.

“Another what?”

“I told you there were eleven ways I knew you were interested in me. Biting your lip is a dead giveaway. You might want to watch that in the future.”

John glanced down at their cocks, bobbing closely together but never quite touching. “We could just take care of ourselves and call it a night if you like. I mean, if you’d rather continue this discussion than…” He lightly traced the underside of Sherlock’s shaft with his fingertip and waited for a response. He received none. “No? Good.” The doctor smirked again before sliding forward and pulling their cocks together into one overflowing fist and began to pump.

Their pricks were hot against one another, the mixture of lube and pre-cum making for a sinfully slick surface on the sensitive skin. John had very little trouble working both himself and Sherlock at once, and he allowed his own head to drop back. He closed his eyes and rocked his hips, feeling nothing but the ecstasy of pulling himself off against Sherlock’s impressively hard cock.

John’s breath was growing shaky, his thighs beginning to ache, when Sherlock’s voice pulled him out of the moment. “No, wait.”

“What’s wrong?” John stilled instantly.

“If you hadn’t stopped, I’d likely have cum.”

“Well, yes…” John pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s the point of this, isn’t it?”

“Obviously. But not yet. Not like this.”

John’s curiosity was piqued, to say the least. “Oh? How so?”

Sherlock’s hands grasped firmly at John’s arse as he tugged the doctor forward and onto his chest. John’s cock bobbed just inches from Sherlock’s face, and the sight was more distracting than John could have ever expected.

“Pheromones,” Sherlock stated pointedly.

“What?” John’s tone lacked amusement or even mild traces of interest.

“That’s six.”

“Are you really still doing this?”

“It would appear so, John.” The detective smirked. “That is, unless you can find a better use for my mouth.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut...

Sherlock’s mouth, when open and from just the right angle, made a perfect heart shape… a fact which was not lost on John. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, he knew he had envisioned that mouth… that heart… wrapped around his cock, but the vague memories of his fleeting fantasies were nothing compared to the opportunity now presenting itself. John felt the nagging urge to ask if Sherlock was sure, but the invitation wasn’t all that vague. The only sort of conversation he could imagine them having about it involved him falling asleep without having a single orgasm while Sherlock rambled about pheromones.

John had never seen Sherlock in such a state. Those bright, mysterious eyes, usually filled with brilliance and power, now looked wantonly at him… expectantly. It was an alarmingly erotic sight for the Army doctor. He wove his fingers into the spun copper of Sherlock’s curls and waited for some further sign of permission. When Sherlock tipped his head forward and licked the still-forming drop of pre-cum from the tip of John’s glans, permissioned seemed to be well and truly granted.

The tenuous part in Sherlock’s lips beckoned John, and he eased in with a soft moan. The instant seal around his shaft was nothing short of glorious, and the hollow formed under the detective’s sharp cheekbones as he began to suck was indescribable. Eventually, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed, and John could only see a mop of quivering curls as Sherlock’s head bobbed up and down on his prick. His grip on Sherlock’s damp locks tightened, and he felt a gentle hum against his cock which radiated throughout his body. John’s entire body, save for one very important part, went lax, and he fell back. His hands rested on his ankles, his arms going rigid at the very last moment so as to remain somewhat upright. Staying upright was important, as was the overwhelming urge to stay buried in Sherlock’s throat. The tip of Sherlock’s nose nuzzled into the coarse, blonde hair at the base of John’s cock, of which he had rather impressively engulfed every centimeter. _I don’t think this is his first tiiiiii—_ At first a disturbing idea, John’s train of thought was derailed with another soft, but very deliberate, humming sensation.

Sherlock’s palm on John’s chest urged him to contort even further back, and he didn’t protest. His head made contact with the mattress, his back arched into an almost painful position… almost. Pain was relative. The angle of his hips allowed Sherlock to easily place delicate, open-mouth kisses along his inner-thighs and the underside of his cock. Whatever pain might have existed was overshadowed by the incredible degrees of pleasure emanating from his groin. A thumb and index finger tweaked his nipple, and he jerked as much as he could under the circumstances. Then came the long, slow drag of nails down his chest, abdomen, and pubis. _Pubis? I’ve been spending too much time around_ “Sheeerlooock,” John whimpered, nearly pained, as the detective traced circles with his tongue on John’s perineum. He was sure he could hear Sherlock grin in response.

With Sherlock’s circled fist pumping his prick and tongue teasing at his scrotum, John wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. His face was flushed and sweat was quickly saturating the sheets near his head. None of it would be lost on Sherlock, no matter how pre-occupied he may have been, and John knew it. His hips were tugged further forward, and his cock quickly disappeared it Sherlock’s mouth once again. He focused on the head, his hand making up the difference, and John whined. The only thing still standing between him and release was what little was left of his own iron-clad restraint.

Unlike Sherlock, who noticed everything, John was far too distracted to hear the faint snap of a plastic cap. That said, it was a complete surprise when he felt a long, thin finger, hot and slick, trailing down the cleave of his arse. He thought about fighting it, but he was in no position to argue with much of anything. _Calm down. It’ll be fine_. He trusted Sherlock his life; he could certainly trust him with his rectum. At least, he hoped he could. The finger’s tip gently teased at his tight entrance, and John was smart enough to try to relax and breathe through the process. If he was being honest with himself though, anything beyond short, ragged breaths was a tall order. Still, Sherlock quickly and expertly wriggled his first knuckle past John’s external sphincter and waited. Definitely not his first time. He had eased off of John’s cock a bit, and John was thankful for it. Too many stimuli had been making his brain start to spark. Sherlock still leisurely stroked him enough to keep him hard and aching, but not so much as to bring him off. _Too fucking smart… Too fucking good_.

John pressed himself harder onto Sherlock’s finger, giving him a clear sign he was ready for more. A bit of twisting and a gentle shove was enough to get the digit past the internal sphincter, and he stilled again. Slow, tight circles provided a gentle stretch, and John pressed down again. Sherlock pulled out slightly, and began to work a second finger back in with the first. John was sure Sherlock had already worked out his tolerance and physiological tells, so he let his more obvious signals fall to the wayside. The fingers scissored slightly as they plunged deeper, the continued stretching creating a surprisingly satisfying burn. Despite whatever degree of discomfort, John’s body cried out for more. As difficult as it was from his position, John bucked his hips, fucking himself on one of Sherlock’s hands and forcing a bit more friction from the other still encircling his cock.

The detective let out a low, ominous chuckle before torqueing his fingers to try and find John’s prostate. John was sure the yelp that caught in his throat would be more than enough to let him know he’d found it. It was. Sherlock lightly brushed the bundle of nerves, and John trembled with each touch. When Sherlock’s tongue swirled his glans once again, he was nearly undone. With only a few measured strokes and some gentle suction, John was coming apart under Sherlock’s calculated control.

“Oh. God. Sherlock. I’m gonna cu—”

The muffled “mmm hmm” reverberating in Sherlock’s throat was enough to make John’s warning a reality. His vision went white as he convulsed, tightening around Sherlock’s fingers and erupting into his mouth. Sherlock pressed deeper on both ends, his fingers buried as deep as they could go while sucking and swallowing every drop of cum John could muster.

Utterly drained and still shaking, John lowered his spine to the bed after Sherlock had released him. _Christ… that… was… the best… orgasm… I’ve had… in ages_. Even the voice in his head was panting. He wasn’t generally one to complain about any orgasm, but the most recent was particularly worthy of extra praise.

John blinked his eyes open and saw Sherlock clutching his dog tags, staring at him. “Okay… I think I worked it out.”

Sherlock’s expression went from lustful to perplexed. “Worked what out exactly?”

“The eleven ways.”

“You think so?” Sherlock chuckled. “Fine. This should be interesting.”

“You really don’t have any faith in me, do you?”

“A better question is how much faith you have in yourself. Get them all right, and I’ll take care of myself and go to sleep. Get them wrong, and I get to penetrate you.”

“Wait… I… but…”

Sherlock glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “It’s getting late, John. What’s your decision?”

John glared. “You told me about my pupils, pulse, biting my lip, the tic in my hand, and pheromones.”

“Yes, though I’m surprised you could recall those in your current state. That’s five. What else?”

“I noticed I was flushed and sweating. My entire body was tensed, and my breathing had gone ragged.”

“Better than expected. Perhaps I won’t get my way after all.” Sherlock looked genuinely disappointed, but John couldn’t be sure it wasn’t all an act. “Two more.”

“I…” _don’t know._ It was true. John wracked his brain trying to uncover something Sherlock must have noticed that he had missed. He replayed as much of their conversation as he could remember, which wasn’t all that speedy a process. “Ah! Erection! You subtly pointed out I had an erection.”

“Impressive, John. Last one then?”

Dammit! If he hadn’t known moments earlier, he really didn’t know now. There seemed to be no clues in their conversation, and the detective’s eyes gave nothing away. He was going to lose the game, and he wasn’t sure he was all that upset about it. “I… don’t know.”

“Do you really not know? Or are you simply trying to rationalize allowing me to penetrate you?”

“WHAT? No… I…”

“Because I know you want that as well.”

“What? How? I don’t… I…”

“It’s good news for me, regardless. Do you give up?”

John winced, both at losing to Sherlock and his own desire to pay his penance. “Yes, fine. I give up.”

“The way you say my name just before you climax.”

“The what?” John was growing angry at the thought of that being the eleventh sign. “You hadn’t even heard me… say… that… when you said there were eleven ways.”

“John.” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve known you long enough to know your vocal patterns. We share a flat. I’ve heard you orgasm before. It’s not as if I couldn’t work it out.”

“No! That doesn’t count.”

“Fine. I wasn’t going to tell you this, but you’re forcing my hand. Last night, when you were in the shower, you called my name. I don’t think you even realized you did it. It was muffled. I imagine you must have been biting your lip at the time. Still, there was no ignoring it. It was clearly my name.”

John’s brow furrowed against his own palm, his eyes shut tight. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I don’t joke, John. I will admit, it sounded significantly filthier tonight than it did last night, though. Incredibly satisfying.” Sherlock crossed the room toward the loo. “Condoms in your overnight bag then?”

“Yes… but, wait… did you go through my things?”

“No need. You had lube with you. Two possible reasons. Either you anticipated this happening between us, less likely since you hadn’t yet accepted you wanted it. Or, more likely, you hadn’t ever removed it after your trip to New Zealand with Sarah.” Sherlock rifled through the bag and quickly returned.

“Sarah, obviously.” John crinkled his nose. “Can we maybe not talk about her right now, though?”

“Fine. Whatever you like.” Sherlock waved the notion away. “Having lube denotes a likelihood of having condoms as well, and I was correct.” He held up several small foil packets. “Either your trip was rather sexually unsuccessful, or you took far more of these than was strictly necessary.”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, more abruptly than he intended.

“Yes, right. No Sarah. Sorry.”

“Th-thanks.” Sorry? Did Sherlock just apologize? _I’d have let him fuck me ages ago if I’d known it would make him human_. “How do you want me?” He could hardly believe what he was saying.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smut...

Sherlock chuckled. “That’s a dangerous question, John. I could fill a book with my answer.”

“For starters then?”

“The first matter of business is to achieve a proper stretch. I would take no joy in causing you injury or more pain than absolutely necessary. Now, if this is your first ti—”

“Of course it’s my first time.” There was a note of offense in the doctor’s tone.

“I’m honoured.” Sherlock seemed sincere.

John found the sincerity somewhat disconcerting. _Is he actually becoming a person? Or is he just practicing again?_ He waited.

“Just lie back.” Sherlock crawled his way up from the foot of the bed, like a predator cornering his prey. The dog tags hung, swinging, around his neck, and he looked utterly ravenous.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_ John liked to tell himself he was worried, but it wasn’t true. Still, he kept lying.

Sherlock’s hand dragged slowly, torturously upwards from John’s calf. He pressed long, lingering kisses just below the doctor’s navel, around his groin, and eventually to his thighs. The hard edge of the detective’s teeth nipped and bit at the sensitive skin of John’s inner-thigh as he almost effortlessly plunged two fingers deep inside John once more.

John sucked in a harsh breath. _When did he lube up again? I didn’t even hear the—_ “Fuuuuuuck.” A gentle swipe across John’s prostate pulled him directly out of his thoughts and erased the question from his memory.

Sherlock stilled. “Are you okay? That sounded pained.”

An emphatic nod was the most John could muster. At first, the pressure was just as intense as before, almost unbearable, but it soon receded and he craved more. “Just do it,” he whimpered.

“John, I don’t want to hurt y—”

“Do it,” John commanded. “Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, his prick dripping at the sound of John’s demand. He ripped the condom packet open with his teeth and quickly rolled it down his erection, popped the cap off the lube, slicked it down the condom, and re-capped the bottle, all one-handed. He used his other hand to continue working John, never missing a beat.

John was impressed… and nervous. He didn’t have to feign concern anymore, but what was he really worried about? He told himself he feared it would hurt. More lies. He feared how desperately he wanted Sherlock to possess him. He had spent so long convincing himself he was straight, yet he found himself sprawled naked with his best friend’s fingers up his arse and anxiously awaiting those fingers to be replaced by… well… “Nnnnnnnnnng…”

If what John felt before was categorized as pressure, the new sensation had to be something more akin to critical mass. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, his teeth clenched, and his fingernails dug deep into Sherlock’s biceps. Low grunts escaped John’s throat as the detective methodically worked his way into the tight opening. Perhaps Sherlock was too smart, or perhaps they knew each other too well, but communication was high while nearly no words were spoken. John had taken to squeezing Sherlock’s arm when he needed a moment, and he would loosen his grip when he could take more. Pressure, pain, burning… It was all there, but none of it mattered. When John opened his eyes, Sherlock’s gaze was set intensely upon him. He was obviously scrutinizing John’s every movement, every slight muscle twitch, voluntary or otherwise, and he was doing it well.

It no longer mattered if it was Sherlock’s first time or his millionth. It didn’t matter if John was going to have to rethink everything about how he identified his sexuality. It was even inconsequential that John was fairly certain he was in love with his best friend. The only thing still leaving the Army doctor unsettled was how much care and concern he could read on Sherlock’s face.

Once he was fully enveloped, Sherlock stilled and ran a hand through John’s dusty blonde locks, absolutely wringing with sweat. He pulled his hand back and, one at a time, sucked each of his fingers into his mouth. The look on his face was something like euphoria.

“Ugh, I’m sweaty.”

“You’re beautiful.” He sounded like he was thinking out loud rather than making a conscious statement. “And there is no part of you I don’t wish to consume.”

 _Creepy. But hot_. John’s dog tags hung mere inches from his own chin, and he used them to drag Sherlock down into a kiss. His cock was trapped between their bodies, and the gentle friction began to bring it back to life. “Are you just going to sit there? Or are you going to fuck me?” he growled quietly into Sherlock’s open mouth, before allowing his tongue to fill the cavernous void.

Sherlock hummed against John’s kiss and laboriously gave his first real thrust. He eased partially out again, and John bit at Sherlock’s lower lip as he slammed back in. He smiled with satisfaction at the detective’s almost inaudible whimper.

John’s tongue traced the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “I said FUCK ME,” he breathed into it, his voice barely a whisper yet undeniably forceful.

Each successive stroke came with a bit more force and confidence, John constantly spurring Sherlock on with the occasionally hissed “harder” or “faster.” Just when they’d finally reached a reasonable cadence, Sherlock stopped. He looked like he had something he wanted to say, but his expression was filled with uncertainty.

“What it is? What’s wrong?” John asked, concerned something had gone awry.

“I… I want you to dominate me, John.”

The doctor’s eyes went wide, as equal parts of bewilderment and intrigue flooded his mind. “How?” It was the only syllable he could manage.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a devilish grin as he gathered John into his arms before rolling onto his back, his cock still firmly planted between John’s arse cheeks. “This is a fine start.”

John sat straddling Sherlock, towering over him. “You want me in control then?” he asked.

“Yes, John, that’s what I jus—”

“RHETORICAL!”

The glint in Sherlock’s eyes was a clear indication he now understood the game they were playing, and his mouth immediately snapped shut. He winced at his injury as he pulled the dog tags from around his own neck and reached to place them on John.

Panic quickly spread across John’s face as the clean, white gauze on his flat mate’s shoulder soaked through with the deep red of fresh blood. As he started to dismount in favour of medical care over sexual pleasure, he saw Sherlock open his mouth again to protest. “I’m changing your bandages, end of. And, if you argue… I swear to Christ, I’ll never bring you off.”

“Yes. Fine,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“What was that?” John was already off the bed and on his way to the loo for new supplies. “I can’t hear you.”

“I’ve already said yes, John. What more do you want?”

“Are you giving me attitude, soldier?” the Army doctor barked.

“Sir… Yes, sir…” he breathed through a grin. “Are you going to punish me?”

The very sound of the syllables rolling off of Sherlock’s tongue was enough to knock a solid twenty minutes off of John’s refractory period, which is to say he almost came again immediately. He carried several objects back into the room and laid them just out of Sherlock’s view. The one item he carried to the bed was the scarf he’d been wearing earlier that night.

“John, no. That’s an exquisite piece of cloth, and it was expensive.”

“It’s a good thing it isn’t for your wound then, isn’t it?”

John delighted at the look of confusion on his lover’s face as he tied the blue silk around Sherlock’s eyes to obscure his vision, an excited gasp his only response. Once the blindfold was in place, he moved back to the chest to retrieve the item he had covertly pulled from in inner breast pocket of Sherlock’s jacket. The subtle clink of metal against the wooden bedpost obviously pricked the detective’s ears, but he still jumped when the cold steel snapped around his wrist. “That ought to keep you from overusing your injured arm again.”

There were only traces of mild concern on Sherlock’s face, and he didn’t utter a peep, which left John satisfied with his choices. He intended to employ a rather unconventional sort of bedside manner, as well as catering to the kinks Sherlock was suddenly displaying proudly. Still, he treaded carefully. Trust issues ran deep in the Holmes family, and their friendship… _Is that still what I’m calling this?_ … may never recover if he were to break that trust.

John gently peeled back the tape from the gauze and took in the damage. It was nothing too severe, which was lucky. He couldn’t very well keep their sex game rolling if Sherlock was in some sort of mortal danger. He’d merely jarred the wound in such a way that caused some temporary bleeding. He reclaimed his position, again straddling his injured friend, and lightly kissed along his jawline and the curve of his neck as he dabbed the gash clean. He’d learned how absolutely juvenile Sherlock was about injuries, so he bit at the man’s neck as he soothed salve over the injury with his thumb. If he was going to have to hear Sherlock whine, he much preferred the one elicited from the bite than the one he would have otherwise still received. Once the new bandage was in place, he taped it on and checked to make sure the cuff on Sherlock’s wrist was secure. Certain that it was, he went to return the medical supplies to the loo, leaving Sherlock to wonder where he might have gone. He returned to find the detective exactly as he’d left him, save for the fact his free hand had wandered down to his erection and was gently pumping it.

“No!” John smacked at Sherlock’s wrist. He spoke sternly. “You can touch only when I say you can touch. Did I say you could touch?”

“No, sir,” Sherlock whimpered, his body going tense.

John’s feather-light touch trailed down Sherlock’s abdomen and swirled in the still-dark curls encircling his cock. One fingertip dragged its way from his perineum, across his scrotum, and up the underside of his prick. After another now-familiar faint click, a new palm of lube coated the latex sheath and he swung his leg back over Sherlock’s narrow waist. _Jesus, what if I fuck this up? What if one of us ends up hurt?_ He glanced at the pristine bandage on Sherlock’s shoulder. _Hurt worse_. He corrected himself. Still, he wouldn’t let on. _He can probably smell the fear on me at this point_. Nerves be damned, Sherlock had saved his life. If he wanted to be dominated, then dominated he would be.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut & fluffy ending...
> 
> Actually wrote in this moment, provided by the amazing annacarrota (NSFW):  
> http://annacarrota.tumblr.com/post/28851612287/megg33k-requested-a-johnlock-kiss-a-kiss

John smeared two fingers through his own pre-cum and glossed it onto Sherlock’s lips before kissing him. Tasting himself on his lover’s lips had never interested him before. In fact, it used to sort of turn him off when a woman would kiss him after she’d just brought him off with a blow job. Something was different about being with Sherlock. _The penis, for starters. That’s different_. There was something else, though. Sherlock could probably tell him exactly what it was, but he’d be damned if he was about to ask.

He licked and sucked his way down Sherlock’s neck and chest, teasing the nipple furthest from the injury with his tongue. He hated the idea of Sherlock tensing the muscles in his wounded shoulder too much. Sherlock bit at his bottom lip, gasping slightly when John released the erect nipple from his mouth with a pop. It would be several minutes before Sherlock received any further stimulation.

With one hand, John stroked himself. He made sure the wet sound of his hand sliding up and down his cock was ever present, giving out short moans to further alert the detective he was missing out on all the fun. He timidly worked the fingers of his other hand into his own arse, just to make certain he would be well prepared to take Sherlock in again. It hadn’t been very long since he’d had Sherlock inside him, but he couldn’t be entirely certain how quickly he’d lose the stretch they’d worked so hard to achieve. _I’d never hear the end of it if I turned up at the hospital with a torn_ … He shuddered at the thought of it.

Each time his fingers almost came out of him, the back of his hand would gently brush Sherlock’s prick, rock solid and obviously ready to be put to use again. John finally let himself loose and grabbed it at its base, giving it one long, measured stroke. Sherlock nearly growled and bit into his bottom lip until he left well-defined teeth marks.

“Are you going to do this or not?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound aloof but coming off every bit as desperate as he was.

“Don’t you have any manners, soldier?” John snapped, surprised to hear himself asking.

“Perhaps I don’t.” The same bratty tone he’d taken to earlier had returned in full force. “Planning to teach me some?”

John grabbed Sherlock’s jaw, turning his head just roughly enough to prove his point and hissed into his ear, “Not until you learn to ask nicely, is that understood?”

“Please?” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm almost as heavily as his cock dripped with anticipation.

“What was that, soldier?” The pressure of John’s fist around Sherlock’s erection tightened, and he bit at the nearly helpless man’s earlobe. “I can’t hear you.”

“Please,” he replied dryly.

“Not good enough.” John released the detective’s cock and placed his hands firmly on his own thighs. “If you really want it—”

“I’m not going to beg, John.”

“Hm…” John started to lift his weight off of his partner.

Sherlock grimaced at the loss of warmth against his pelvis. “Wait!” It certainly sounded like begging.

“Change of heart?”

Sherlock’s hand fumbled up towards John’s chest, and he clutched the dog tags in his fist. He pulled John forward, their noses nearly touching, before he whimpered again. “Please, Captain. May I please fuck you again?” He sounded like he could cry without much effort.

John crushed their mouths together once more, their tongues engaged in a delicate power struggle. He took hold of Sherlock’s prick again and lined it up with his own entrance. _Soon… just not yet._

He sucked at Sherlock’s neck and throat, delighting as the detective quivered between his thighs. “Are you sure you want this bad enough?” Sherlock nodded tensely. “Absolutely positive, then?” Another anxious nod. “Fine.” John sank his teeth in to the man’s neck as he sunk back onto his cock. They both groaned.

John rocked his hips, slowly at first, and enjoyed the dissonance of simultaneously feeling so powerful yet so incredibly vulnerable. He decided he’d never given so much of himself to anyone before. It was just another lie, though. He’d given Sherlock one-hundred percent of himself since the moment they’d first laid eyes on one another. Even if it had never been quite so literal before, the man beneath him had already possessed him for a great many months. Their current scenario suddenly seemed like nothing more than the next logical step. _Ah, that must be what it feels like to obserrrrve_. Even his inner voice couldn’t resist mocking the last syllable. Hearing Sherlock drone on about seeing rather than observing all the time was obnoxious; rather, he wished he found it as obnoxious as he knew it was.

The more annoyed he got at himself for finding Sherlock so alluring, the harder he bucked his hips. He was actually getting angry at himself, and he was taking it out on Sherlock in all the most pleasant ways. He dug his thumbs in near his infuriatingly irresistible flat mate’s hip bones and snapped his own hips harder and faster. John was lost in his own thoughts, his body on auto-pilot, when some minor adjustment allowed for stimulation of his prostate with each undulation. His head whipped back, and he ground hard against it.

John panted out ragged moans as he writhed helplessly on Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock’s hips jerked wildly beneath him, and he realized the detective wouldn’t hold out much longer. He opened his eyes and reached to remove the scarf from Sherlock’s eyes but was surprised to find it had already been done for him. The detective’s expression was bordering on lewd, his gaze every bit as penetrating as his cock.

John reached to pull himself off, but Sherlock caught the doctor’s wrist with his free hand. He interlaced their fingers and dragged John up near his face. Sherlock’s eyes begged John to wait, and he complied. John never stopped or slowed. He’d found the cadence his lover needed, and he couldn’t wait to watch the man come apart. Their gazes were locked on one another. John could almost see Sherlock’s resolve crumbling before him.

“Let go,” John whispered. “Come undone for me. Just… _cummmmm._ ” The last word was more hummed than spoken.

He felt the form beneath him go completely rigid. Sherlock’s pupils blew even wider, his perfect, heart-shaped mouth gaping open. He heard as the breath stuck hard in Sherlock’s throat, and he took in every satisfying moment of the event. As the detective’s steely façade shattered, John felt like he was staring into the man’s soul. Sherlock’s eyes remained open, which seemed like no easy task under the circumstances, so as to allow John to watch. But, no matter how deeply he looked in to Sherlock’s eyes, he could only see his own reflection. That was probably the point of it, though. Nothing was ever an accident with Sherlock. He had wanted John to know, need him to know how he really felt.

When Sherlock’s body stilled from quaking, and his cock from pulsing, John finally place his forehead against the sweaty brow of his partner. Their lips gently connected, and Sherlock let escape a very heavy sigh. John licked across his own bottom lip, sucking it in behind his teeth, as he pulled away. His cock, trapped between their bodies, was still swollen, throbbing, and ready to erupt.

“Un-cuff me,” Sherlock said sharply. John looked at his erection jutting out from between them and back at Sherlock, who simply repeated himself. “Un-cuff me.”

John retrieved the small key off the bedside table and unlocked the cuff, which sprang open. Sherlock’s arm dropped limply to the bed, and he rolled his wrist in circles to loosen it up again. John soothed kisses along the irritated skin. He was worried he’d actually made matters worse.

“It’s fine, John. I’m fine.” Sherlock often seemed to be something of a mind reader. “Now go get another condom. I want you to take me any way you like.”

John choked on his next breath. “I’m not sure I know how to… I mean… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hand me the lube and go get a condom. I’ll be ready by the time you get back.”

“That won’t take but a minute, Sherlock.”

“Walk slowly if it makes you feel better, but it’s only fair to tell you I’m rather accustomed to taking something about your size.”

“Should I be insulted?”

“Quite the opposite.” Sherlock chuckled. “I suspected you might take it that way, though.”

“Mm…” John was clearly dubious. “Quite the opposite?”

The detective smirked. “I have a dildo at home nearly identical to… you.”

“Oh?” John’s brow furrowed. “Lucky coincidence then?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock admitted, his fingers already buried deep inside himself. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.”

John rocked back onto his heels. “Well…” He had no idea how to respond to that. He should have been angry or felt violated or even questioned how he knew what size he would be, but he instead found himself more turned on by the admission.

“Condom, John.”

The sound of Sherlock’s voice set John back on task. “Condom. Right.” He retrieved one, stopped briefly to roll it on, and headed back toward the bed, where Sherlock seemed to be waiting anxiously.

John knelt between Sherlock’s thighs, one hand on each of the man’s knees, and took in the sight of Sherlock splayed out before him… for him. “Wh-what should I do?”

“Fuck me, John.”

The doctor froze. “Wait… I—”

“I’ve already been waiting for ages. Now… please.” The desperation had returned to his voice.

John’s cock twitched, and he nodded. He eased himself in through the ring of muscle, still tight but shockingly accepting of him. As he felt his glans slip past the second sphincter, he watched Sherlock’s chest and abdomen rise and fall with slow, deliberate breaths. Once he was in, he waited.

Sherlock’s eyes, which had been closed, snapped open. He gave a jerky nod for John to continue, and John obeyed again. He had never really been the one in control, but he didn’t care. He began thrusting, totally enraptured by the feeling of Sherlock’s arse wrapped hot and tight around his cock. It was the most amazing feeling in the world.

He listened to the symphony created as Sherlock keened below him, and he sank deeper into the detective. John pulled the man’s legs onto his shoulders and pressed in as far as he could. He was terrified he wouldn’t last long without distraction, but he could only retrieve one thought from his lust-clouded mind. “Why did you let him kiss me but knock the drink from my hand?” He continued to thrust.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow at the question. Even John could admit it was an odd thing to ask at such a time. “The kiss was innocuous enough. It was the drink which was dangerous.”

“Tell me how you knew.” John pounded into him harder. The distraction didn’t seem to be helping.

“I warned you, John. He was lacing the liquor with Rohypnol. I could tell by the tracks he left… blahblahblah…”

The sound of him being brilliant while John fucked him was just too much. He wouldn’t last much longer. _I’ve got a deduction kink? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. And more L’s… god… those… fucking… goddamned… L’s!_

“Harder, John. Make me feel you.”

John closed his eyes and rolled his neck. The sound of Sherlock’s voice… it affected him. He wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock’s thighs, holding them to his own body, and arched his back in such a way he was sure he could brush the man’s prostate. The proceeding strained scream emanating up from Sherlock’s gut and spilling from his lips seemed to corroborate his hypothesis.

He panted as he slammed into Sherlock, over and over again. He had no restraint left. His prick ached inside his lover.

“FUCK. ME,” Sherlock barked, each word sharp and pointed.

John’s body flushed with heat. White hot current surged through him. “Oh, god… yes… Sherlooooooo—” He gasped as he came, his body trembling. A few final pumps drained him, and he collapsed next to Sherlock on the bed.

He tugged off the condom, knotted it, and threw it toward the bin. It didn’t matter that he missed. John rolled onto his stomach, Sherlock’s hand trapped between his chest and the mattress. Sherlock rolled onto his side and leaned in for a kiss.

John’s eyes were closed and his lips expectant. When nothing happened, he peeked out to see Sherlock only millimeters from him and staring. The sight of it took his breath away.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a whisper when the air had reclaimed its rightful place in his lungs.

“I just had to see what you looked like waiting for my lips to meet yours, and it’s _beautiful_ ,” came the quiet response.

Eh, who needs to breathe anyway? “I don’t know what to say.” It was true.

“Sure you do.” Sherlock nuzzled his nose against John’s cheek.

“Sherlock… I looo—” The word caught in John’s throat until he cleared it. He didn’t try to repeat himself.

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile. At least that’s what the crinkling near his eyes indicated had happened. He was still much too close for John to see his mouth. “It’s okay, John.” His words were still barely a whisper. “I know I’m not very good with this sort of thing… sentiment and all… but I’m fairly certain I love you, too.”

Their lips met before John could respond. The kiss was intense and passionate and remarkably… satisfying. John hummed against it, his lungs crying out for all the oxygen they had recently had pulled from them. His chest heaved, but he fisted his hands into those copper curls once again and pulled Sherlock in harder, deeper. He tugged, and Sherlock moaned into his mouth.

When they separated, John stared in a daze. “I think you should keep the hair.”

“No.” Sherlock said without a second’s hesitation. “Absolutely not.”

“You do realize the hair’s what won me over tonight?”

Sherlock sighed. “There were at least fifteen other things that ‘won you over,’ as you say. I could name them if you li—”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” John scowled. “Or you’ll never have me again.”

“Yes, I would.” Sherlock smirked.

“Fine. You probably would.”

Sherlock’s eyes fell shut as he pressed his lips to John’s temple. “Maybe I’ll leave the hair for a little longer.”

John smiled sleepily from Sherlock’s shoulder and nodded before flicking off the lamp. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“G’night, John.”


End file.
